Fanfare is about instraments in orchestra. THese are the Trombones, Moises Martin, David Arce, & Aaron Orza.
San Francisco Ballet program #2, Dress rehearsal for San Francisco ballet program that opens this evening. PHOTO BY PENNI GLADSTONE

Photo: PENNI GLADSTONE

Fanfare is about instraments in orchestra. THese are the Trombones,...

The Battle of the Bulge / Chatting with SF Ballet's Helgi Tomasson about men in tights

"Is this the men's class?" a male dancer asks with a smirk. "Because I'm not sure I'm man enough."

He is tall and, like most of the 25 or so other San Francisco Ballet dancers stretching and prancing about the mirror-lined room, he's in his mid-20s. The dark-haired dancer also sports ass cheeks so muscular even a hard spank couldn't make them jiggle. By some people's definitions, he is all man. But to others -- including my Archie Bunker-esque dad and just about every guy I grew up with back in Buffalo, New York -- he is a pansy.

Just as I'm assessing the talent of these muscular young men brave enough to wear crotch-happy tights, in walks the San Francisco Ballet's legendary artistic director, Helgi Tomasson, who has kindly allowed me to observe his Friday-morning class for the male members of our city's world-class ballet company. Helgi (pronounced HELL-gee) is much older (58) than all his dancers, and they respectfully snap to attention the moment the gray-haired dance master commences class with a crisp clap.

Helgi is San Francisco's guru of guys in tights. That's why I'm here. If anyone can explain to me why it is that a male occupation requiring the arms of A-Rod and the vertical leap of Allen Iverson remains just to the left of Richard Simmons on our culture's machismo scale, it is Helgi Tomasson, a former star with the New York City Ballet who joined the San Francisco Ballet in 1985.

I have been pondering our culture's peculiar gender syllogism ever since last year, when I saw "Billy Elliot," a film about a British lad who dreams of becoming a ballet dancer, in spite of his father's macho protestations. I cried. Snot-filled buckets. The kid in the movie reminded me of myself, of the day I was 11 and I told my father that I -- who had been playing ice hockey since age 8 -- now wanted to try figure skating (which is basically ballet on ice). Dad nixed the idea with a grunt and an emasculating quip: "Figure skating is for pussies."

Maybe, in the recesses of my 31-year-old repressed mind, I still want to be a ballet dancer. Maybe Helgi will see the sturdy legs on my 5'11" frame and say, "Hey, Ken, you should be a dancer!"

As I watch the ballet class begin and the men hold the barre for balance during their warm-up positions, all I can think about is the one aspect of ballet I'd suspect keeps most boys playing sports like hockey: the Bulge. Not Helgi's -- he's wearing jeans. The dancers' tights, however, leave little of their bulbous packages to the imagination. (Note to the curious: Package placement is much like the proper storage position of an airplane seat-back tray: in the up and locked position.) I note in my pad to ask Helgi about "the Bulge" in our postclass interview.

The talent level in the room is impressive. Within 20 minutes, the guys are throwing pirouettes and grand jetés all across the floor. When the pianist stops and the dancing continues I'm struck at how quiet the room is. For all their physical exertion, these guys exhibit as much disciplined physicality as football players show reckless abandon. This, I conclude, is what makes ballet dancers more than mere athletes. Because of their poise and grace, they are artists. Strong. Disciplined. Manly, indeed.

The hour-long class is nearly over, but I've worked up such a thirst watching their high-energy workout that I have to walk quietly outside to the water fountain in the hallway. There, I find a couple of teenage boys in dance tights sitting on a bench, waiting for their summer-session class to start. When I ask one of the them -- a 15-year-old kid from Florida -- how he deals with those who might tool on him about the effeminate stereotype of male dancers, he replies, "My dad doesn't think it's manly. He hates it." The boy grimaces, then shrugs his shoulders. "But I don't care. I love it."

But what about those tights? Aren't they sort of, well, uncomfortable?

"At first," the other teen chimes in, "you're a little self-conscious, but you get used to them after a while. Plus, I mean, they're no different than bike shorts."

Good point.

The class ends. Helgi and I head to his office for a quick chat on his soft chairs. I'm careful to show good posture; he seems to be a stickler for that, at least with his dancers. (Who knows? Maybe I still have a shot.)

Helgi tells me he is from Iceland and that when he started dancing at age 9, he was the only boy in a school of 200 girls. He points out that while the balance of the sexes isn't nearly as bad here, he is troubled that fewer and fewer boys are taking ballet. "There's always a little bit of a shortage on the male side," Helgi says. "I have a lot of young boys in this school who have that passion and want to dance, but all too often there is peer pressure."

Even in San Francisco, whose people usually pride themselves on their socially liberal culture, the stigma of effeteness keeps boys from sliding into slippers and wiggling into tights. "There has been a drop-off in the number of boys," Helgi says. "There is more acceptance of dance for boys in other countries. In Russia, to be a major ballet star is to be like a movie star in this country. We do not have that tradition in this country."

At this point, I think maybe this is a good time to bring up the whole bulge issue. I briefly consider suggesting that if he didn't make boys wear those ball-huggers -- how about gangsta-style jeans? -- more guys would give it a shot. I mean, football pants are pretty much just ballet tights with padding. (But then, NFL players don't spend much time on their tiptoes.) Instead, I diplomatically suggest that maybe "that whole tights thing" makes young boys uncomfortable. Helgi smiles. "You wear tights because you have to be able to see the body and how the muscles are working," he says. "If you cover the body up, it is hard for a teacher to be helpful to a student." He adds, "But I understand that pressure."

Sitting there with Helgi talking about the dearth of male dancers, I start getting, well, angry. It's at moments like this that I weep for my gender. We're so hung up on our bodies that we don't want to wear tights, lest we show the world the size of our package. The shame! The horror! The reality.

And then I start thinking about all the great men in tights: Superman, Batman, Robin Williams in "The Birdcage." And think what you want about that pumpkinhead Scott Hamilton; in my book, any guy who can do backflips on ice skates is a stud.

So who knows? Maybe it's time we men evolve beyond the point of being ashamed of our asses and packages. Maybe it's time we, like women have for a while now, let it all hang out. Women show off their breasts. Why don't we exhibit our units?

Before leaving, I fish for an invitation to try out by coyly asking Helgi what physical traits he looks for in male dancers.

"Well, they have to be strong in the arms and legs, so they can lift the ladies," he says.

(I'm pretty strong.)

"And I look for good proportions. For someone who has a long torso and short legs, it is going to be much harder for them to do the leaps."

(Damn! My legs have always been too short for my body. As an infant, my parents even nicknamed me "Stubs.")

Concerned about my proportions, I point to my denim-covered legs and say, "So I guess I wouldn't make a good dancer, huh?"

SF-based writer Ken Baker, a contributing editor for Us Weekly and a former correspondent for People magazine, is the author of "Man Made: A Memoir of My Body," the story of his decade-long battle with a brain tumor that was secreting a female hormone.